


Wrong Cop, Right Man

by AnythingThrice



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Costumes, Cultural Confusion, Get Together, Halloween parties, Humor, M/M, Romance, TV Show References, The Team Party Made Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 07:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21352567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingThrice/pseuds/AnythingThrice
Summary: The Hawks Halloween party theme is iconic TV shows from when they were kids, and Pat's clearly rocking the Miami Vice look, so why is everyone calling him 'Ray'? And just what the hell is up with Jonny and that dumb puppet?
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62
Collections: Hawksloween





	Wrong Cop, Right Man

**Author's Note:**

> I had a grand idea to tell a love story via team party Halloween costumes through the years. This isn't that. This is a very silly rendering of my concept for 2008-09, fueled by a recent rewatch of _due South_ and a bit of nostalgia for 1988's salad days. Happy Hawksloween, and thanks to ATB for making this fest! :)
> 
> **Disclaimer:** All untrue. So much lies.

* * *

_~Hawks Halloween Party 2008_

"Oho!"

Fact: There are entirely too many Canadians on this team. Case in point? This, right here, for the nth time tonight. A guy's—Sharpy, as it happens—eyes lighting up when he finds Pat hanging off Jonny's arm. His left arm. The one that's not halfway up Fido puppet's furry ass.

"Look here, boys, it's the Cop and his Mountie."

"No." Pat shakes his head for emphasis. It's not the best feeling, and he's reminded of just why he's hanging off Jonny's arm. Should have known better than to go shot for shot with the likes of Marty and Big Ben. A curse on whatever's in that trash can punch.

Sharpy's beaming at them, reaching out for Pat's hair. "Ohmygod, Peeks, that's too fuckin' cute. You two plan this shit or—"

"Nope." Pat dodges, batting Sharpy's hand away with his free arm. In the process he sort of barges into Jonny, gets a faceful of scratchy red fabric and metal buttons. "Ugh."

"Easy there, _Ray_." Jonny says, steadying them. Asshole. Pat shoots him a mean look only to find that Jonny's beaming now, too. His cheeks are pink, his forehead and temples all sweaty because he refuses to take off the stupid hat. He looks 110% delighted, which is far from the usual when Sharpy's paying him this much attention.

"Fate, then," Sharpy says, chuckling, clapping Pat's left shoulder and Jonny's right. His smile widens, turns wicked. "Whatever the story, it's legend now. So thank you from the bottom of my handsome heart—"

"_Nope_ as in, you're loco, Shooter," Pat cuts in, shrugging off Sharpy's hand. "You're all loco. Why the hell would I dress up as some douchebag off Canada TV I don't even know?"

"Hey!" Jonny jerks, squeezing Pat's arm into his side. "Ray's no douchebag. Impulsive, perhaps…a bit hot-tempered, but essentially he's—"

"_Canada TV_?" Sharpy scoffs. "Peekaboo, I know you took a pass on the college route, but surely you're not that ignorant."

"What do you call yourself then?" Pat cries. He shakes his hair out, fumbles in the pocket of his oversize white blazer for the sunglasses. Dammit. He knows he had them earlier. Maybe he left them in the john? Or handed them off to Steeger when he'd first been challenged to shots? "I guarantee you, no one who's not a syrup-sucker has ever heard of Mountie Mister Rogers here, whereas Crockett—"

"Who's Crockett?"

"Sonny Crocket, of Crockett and Tubbs? From Miami freaking Vice? Jesus. What is wrong with you people?" Pat gestures wildly to cover up the fact that he can't produce the sunglasses, is becoming les and less certain of their fate by the second.

"Wait, which one was that?" Jonny says.

"Are you serious?" Pat blinks up at him, can't tear his eyes away from where Jonny's sucked his lower lip behind his teeth. "Dude, Jon Johnson. _Don,_ I mean. Don Johnson."

"You mean you're not…" Jonny releases Pat's arm and rounds on him, effectively blocking Sharpy out. His gaze sweeps down, then up, eyes so fucking wide it's unnerving. The puppet's glassy eyes and dumb, eager expression don't help. It's mad fluffy, and looks really soft. The puppet, that is. Not Jonny. "You're really not Ray?"

"Jonny, listen. Let it never be said you don't look good in red—" Pat lifts a hand at Sharpy's snort and gives him the finger over Jonny's shoulder. "—and I've mad respect for anyone wanting to give big ups to their birth nation but, hand to God, I've no idea who you're supposed to be other than a Mountie. Unless it's just one of those male, uh, strippers, in which case the dog puppet's kinda creepy, to be honest, but the boots—"

"Wolf. Well, half wolf."

"What?!"

Jonny waggles the puppet, works its muzzle. "Meet Diefenbaker."

"Gesundheit."

"No, that's his _name_. He's a big part of the show." Jonny pats the puppet's head, then blows Pat's mind by scratching it between the ears. Smiling. Shrugging. Turning even redder when he catches Pat staring at him. "I thought about hiring a real one for the night, but Seabs talked me out of it."

"Remind me to send him a fruit basket."

"Also, your mom mentioned you were afraid of big—"

"Allergic!" Pat cuts in, grabbing for Jonny's non-puppety hand and desperately tugging him away from Sharpy, away from all these assholes who are beauties, really, but do not give him one single ounce of respect off the ice if they can help it, so there's no need to give them more ammo.

"Kaner, where are we—"

"In here," Pat says, groping blindly for what he thinks is the door out onto the balcony. He yanks Jonny through it, slams it shut behind him. Realizes it's not the balcony door right around the time his hip makes painful contact with some sort of shelving unit, a bunch of shit clatters to the floor, and Jonny starts giggle-snorting.

"You _sure_ you're not Ray?"

"What?"

"I believe we're in a closet."

"So?"

"So you've really never seen _Due South_?"

"No! What the fuck, Jonny, why is everyone—"

"Pity," Jonny cuts in, and there's something about his voice, here in the dark, that makes Pat's breath catch in his throat. And okay, yes, there's also the fact that they are standing so close—too close—close enough that he can smell Jonny, feel the heat coming off him. "You'd make a wonderful Ray, Kaner."

"Oh? Why's that?" He means it to sound challenging, hard, but his voice betrays him, coming out all scratchy and low like Jonny's told him a secret, one Pat wants to keep. He repositions himself cautiously, feeling for the shelving unit behind him and grasping one of its uprights. He shoves his other hand in his pocket. 

Jonny exhales in a soft chuckle. Pat can feel it, can smell the sweet booze on his breath. 

"Well. He can be mouthy, rude, has a bit of a swagger. Likes to think he's a flashy dresser—"

"Hey!"

"But," Jonny cuts in, and somehow, impossibly, he's even closer, his breath warm on Pat's cheek. "He loves his family, is dedicated to his job and he's my…well, Fraser's, partner. Never lets him down."

Pat swallows, suddenly feeling far too sober. "Never, huh? Tough gig."

Jonny sighs heavily. "Well, almost never. No one's perfect."

"Ah."

"Also…"

Pat's holding his breath when he feels the first tickle of fur against his neck. He cries out, convulsing into the solid mass that is Jonny—seemingly everywhere now—caging Pat in, pressing him back against the shelves, smelling really nice actually, for all that he's sweating like a beast, and caressing Pat's face with…oh god, it's the fucking _puppet._

It is, indeed, mad fluffy and really soft. Pat closes his eyes and bites down on his lower lip so he doesn't make any more dumb sounds.

"… Diefenbaker approves," Jonny adds, continuing to gently maul Pat with his puppet hand, rubbing the synthetic fur against his cheek and neck, then 'nipping' at his ear with the puppet's plush velvet mouth. "_Adores_ him, really."

"Jonny," Pat whispers. He's suddenly, painfully aware that he's getting hard and that, given their intimate position and distressing lack of hockey pants, Jonny's a mere couple of seconds (and inches) from finding out.

"Mmm?" 

The puppet's mouth rubs along Pat's jaw just as Jonny repositions his leg, slotting it in between Pat's so it's rubbing against…oh. _Oh._

"Jon!"

"Yes?"

Pat's not sure if they've both gone completely still or if it's just that everything's vibrating so fast it seems like time has stopped. One thing he's sure of is that Jonny's fully aware of his boner now. Two: That Jonny's not pulling away. Three: That this has gone beyond dumb costumes and Dutch courage. Whatever happens next is on them.

He lets go of the shelf, pulls his other hand out of his pocket and works his arms up between them, until he's got Jonny by that stiff, high collar, fingertips just brushing the damp, hot skin of his neck. He thinks he can hear Jonny's pulse. 

"I don't care how much of a hard-on he has for me, Jonny. I am not making out with the puppet." And now he thinks he can hear Jonny smile, can feel the tip of his nose brushing his cheek.

"Of course not, Kaner. That would be silly."

"Also—"

But with Jonny's mouth on his, Pat decides that additional chirping is unnecessary. Jonny's got to know how lame it is to try and seduce someone with a dog puppet. Or half-wolf puppet. Whatever. And the fact that they are kissing is absolutely not proof that it worked, but rather that Pat is a savvy, tolerant guy who understands that not everybody's got game like the Don. 

Not that Jonny doesn't have game, because he's pretty good at this whole kissing thing and—

"Kaner?"

"Mwhuh?"

"Ssh. You're overthinking it."

At some point Pat registers that there's howling happening outside the closet door. Human howling, accompanied by whistles and yips and a whole lot of pounding. Someone—Sharpy, Pat thinks—makes a crack about their seven minutes being up.

They part reluctantly, Pat relishing the way Jonny's breathing sounds all snuffly, how he keeps his thigh lodged firmly up against Pat's dick and the puppet-hand wrapped around the back of Pat's head. Pat gives his neck a squeeze, whispers, "Mine or yours?"

Jonny nuzzles his ear. "Well, technically it's Seabs', but I—"

Patrick shuts him up with a bruising kiss, gives his neck another squeeze as he pulls away. "Well, we had one hell of a run partner!" he announces, loud enough for all the guys to hear. 

It takes Jonny a moment to catch on—Pat feels wicked for how much he's into it, this overwhelmed, dick-stupid version of Jonny—but when he does he squeezes back, then disentangles them.

"Indeed!" he says brightly, opening the door and resettling his hat. "Thank you kindly, Kaner."

Fact: There are still entirely too many Canadians on this team, and the puppet thing? It's still weird. But Pat's feeling some big hair, big dick, big-hearted Miami swagger tonight. So whomever it is who has his sunglasses can keep them, the trash can punch is alright, and the boys can call him Ray all they like. 

Jonny _does_ looks good in red, even if it's Canada red, and Pat's going home with him at the end of the night.

* * *


End file.
